


The flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long

by Aanok



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25957558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aanok/pseuds/Aanok
Summary: All her life, Cassandra waited for her chance to shine, the chance to prove herself and fulfill her ambitions. When Arendelle invaded Corona and she was the one called to lead the defense, that moment finally came. But together with it, the overwhelming weight of responsibility and the crushing awareness that the fate of the entire kingdom rested on her shoulders.
Relationships: Cassandra/Rapunzel (Disney: Tangled), Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider/Rapunzel
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. A cornered animal fights to its death

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction was born as a series of greentexts I posted on the TTS threads over at 4chan's /co/ board, which I later decided to expand into a proper story with some meat and planning behind it.
> 
> The first three chapters map to the greentexts exactly, reposted verbatim, >memearrows and all. As such, they're rather awkwardly paced, very self-indulgent and generally pretty raw. Later developments will expand and make better sense of things but I hope you'll enjoy the start as well.

>Arendelle's declaration of war had come completely out of the blue. Sure, the dispute on the legitimacy of their claim over Northuldra had been dragging on for some time but nobody had expected such a sudden and massive excalation.  
>Even less had anybody expected the small kingdom to have gathered that much of a military force in secret.  
>The Crown had hastily raised levies and hired mercenary bands but Corona had been caught completely by surprise in those first few decisive weeks and had kept paying a high price ever since.  
>The rest of the Seven Kingdoms were being of little help. Ingvarr, the only one that kept a well-organized standing army, had decided to remain neutral by reason of geographic distance. So had Equis, by reason of being lead by a slime.  
>It was a dark hour. King Frederik had taken personal lead of the army, appointing Eugene and Cassandra as Marshals.  
>Eugene was a cunning general. Assigned command of the mercenaries, a small force of hardened professionals, he'd managed to catch the Arendellians by surprise a few times, laying ambushes and traps to slow their advance across the country. At times he'd marched ahead, taking piercing prods at the enemy column, trying to fracture and disperse their forces. The sorties were already raising his figure as a hero in the minds of the people.

>Cassandra had been put in charge of the peasant levy and the unenviable job of bearing the brunt of the enemy assaults. Her duty, directly mandated by His Royal Majesty per Divine Right, was to arrange line after line of innocent people between the enemy and Corona. Farmers and laborers taken away from their ploughs and daily toil to lay on a butcher's counter for the sake of their liege.  
>And it was like she was born for it. The more the bodies piled on, the more a frenzy took over her. She would march in front of the troops and hold impassionate speeches, spurring everyone to hold fast for the sake of their royals, arguing for the honour of a subject to give their life in name of their King, their Queen, their beloved Princess. She would always join the fray whenever the armies clashed and wherever she stood on the battlefield the enemy did not advance. One day she hurt her hand, badly. She learned to fence with the other and it only served to stoke the fires of her resolve. The people feared her.  
>But it was a losing fight. Corona was stalling, trying to buy time while it mustered more mercenaries, more levies, more arms. Not enough. It would never be enough. Not on time.  
>They needed something to turn the tables.  
>Rapunzel managed the home front with her mother. She didn't want to fight and she wouldn't have been allowed anyways. Her contributions to the war effort were a relentless and fruitless attempt at a diplomatic solution and a heartfelt campaign to keep high the morale of her subjects. She organized concerts, speeches and events attended by people who came hungry, tired and disheartened and left hungry, tired and reminded of why it was that they just had to fight.

>Ultimately, it was Cassandra's idea. She'd kept correspondence with that awkward kid, Varian, since way before the war. He'd ramble about his latest contraption or fixation and she'd write about life at court... about the Princess, really. It was a way to pass time and organize some of her thoughts. One day she woke up in her tent and suddenly remembered the time he wrote of a series of attempts at refining one of his compounds and how they were all met with an explosive end.  
>She hastily penned a letter and signed an order and sent trusted men to Old Corona. She was later told the kid firmly objected to her request and had to be forced to collaborate. But the fact was, a couple of weeks later the Royal Coronan Army had finally access to a considerable stockpile of Quirinium.  
>Cassandra organized a demonstration for the King and delivered a feverish pitch that this was their one chance at winning the war and saving the Kingdom.  
>Everyone present was horrified. King Frederik retired to his tent, alone, reviewing maps and reports, pacing back and forth for the better part of an hour until, white as a sheet, he called for a paige and handed off a decree authorizing the use of the new weapon.  
>The results came immediately with an updraft of burned meat. Trebuchets hurled large projectiles filled with explosive, unfortunate men charged with hand grenades and made a slaughterhouse of the battlefield. For the first time since the war had started, the head of Arendelle's army had to beat a retreat.  
>On a hill, away from the fight for once, overlooking the sight stood Cassandra in her armor. Her wounded hand tightened into a fist and a pleased smile slowly spread across her face.


	2. Violence begets violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfiction was born as a series of greentexts I posted on the TTS threads over at 4chan's /co/ board, which I later decided to expand into a proper story with some meat and planning behind it.
> 
> The first three chapters map to the greentexts exactly, reposted verbatim, >memearrows and all. As such, they're rather awkwardly paced, very self-indulgent and generally pretty raw. Later developments will expand and make better sense of things but I hope you'll enjoy the start as well.

>The fighting stopped. Eugene's scouts reported the Arendellians had made fortified camps and seemed intent on holding their position for the time being. Against Cassandra's recommendation, King Frederic ruled to let them be and suspend all activity, taking the chance so the Royal Army could catch its breath.  
>The wait was unnerving, but that one victory had managed in the impossible task of giving Corona hope that not all was lost in the end. The means by which this had been achieved had been kept secret as much as possible, but rumors that demons of fire and thunder had been unleashed by Marshal Cassandra on the battlefield were spreading all over. Whispers and hushed voices referred to her as the Witch Marshal, Lady-in-Slaying and other much less elegant names in a mixture of fear and awe.  
>Which she immensely enjoyed.  
>About a week later she received an unexpected visit. She was in the middle of being delivered a report from a messenger when the country's most beloved blond braid made its entrance from the flap of her tent.  
>"Raps!"  
>She ran and swept the Princess off her feet in a twirl and a hug that could crush rocks. When she finally put her down, the expectant, adoring look in her eyes was met with an awkward smile.  
>"It's good to see you, Cass." Rapunzel replied tucking a strand of that gorgeous hair behind her ear. Cassandra hesitated for a moment but she was just too happy to let the unexpected coldness get to her. She beamed with a sincere smile like she hadn't in months.  
>"You too, Raps. But what are you doing here? I know things are quiet for now but it's still too dangerous for you to be at the front."  
>"I... hm. I wanted to talk to you. Could we sit down?"  
>"Of course, Princess."

>She dismissed the runner and automatic, practiced motions from happier times quickly brought cups and a pot of tea on the table.  
>"I know this is not quite the same as the castle, but the tea itself is surprisingly good."  
>Cassandra joined Rapunzel, taking a seat on one of the stools around the table. The usual assortment of maps, tokens and weapons blanketing it had been moved aside to make space for the drink.  
>"How have you been, Cass?"  
>Cassandra instinctively cupped her right wrist, flexing the hand. In her excitement she'd made a wrong movement preparing the tea and it was stinging pretty badly.  
>"I'm not gonna lie, stepping up to the King's mandate has been a challenge. But I've done my best and it's finally starting to pay off so... I think I'm good."  
>Rapunzel extended a hand and gently held her friend's on the table. She looked her straight in the eyes, her expression filled with fear and concern.  
>"Cass, is it true? You know dad doesn't tell me anything and neither does Eugene these days. Are the rumors true? About the battle?"  
>Cassandra chuckled.  
>"What, that we used dark magic against Arendelle? That's what the troop's been saying, right? Don't be silly, of course not."  
>The Princess let out a deep breath and slumped over, relaxing.  
>"Oh thank God. I knew you'd never--"  
>"We used alchemy. You remember Varian, right? I realized some of his research could help us so I made him prepare some things for field use. I think it's good people mistook it for magic, it helps us hide our real secret. Rapunzel?"  
>Rapunzel had let go of Cassandra and was looking at her former handmaiden with wide, horrified eyes, trembling hands covering her mouth.  
>"No. No, no, oh, Cassandra. Oh, Cass, what have you done?"  
>"What have... wha-- what are you talking about, Raps?"  
>"All those poor people..."

>Understanding flickered in Cassandra's mind. Eugene had expressed a similar concern after the demonstration.  
>It reminded her how good of a match the two were for each other.  
>"Those poor people would have been Coronans in a matter of days, Rapunzel. Deploying the Quirinium was necessary to save the Kingdom from ruin."  
>"Was it, Cass? Was there really no other choice?"  
>Cassandra paused for a moment. She got up and moved to drop on one knee in front of the Princess, to then reach over and carefully take her hands in hers.  
>"I've left so many of my soldiers on the battlefield. I've seen... terrible sights. Not one night I've gone without thinking if I did everything right or there was something more I could have done. Rapunzel, Queen Anna's forces have given us no quarter and shown no mercy. I saw a way to turn the tables on them and I took it. You shouldn't feel like they deserve your compassion, they're the ones who started this entire war."  
>The Princess searched her friend's face as she spoke and bit by bit her own expression hardened.  
>"The Cassandra I knew would have never resorted to this barbarity. She would have fought teeth and nail to protect her friends and family but with honor and integrity. And in the end, she would have still prevailed."  
>"It turned out integrity didn't quite cut it, Raps. You must understand, all I want is to keep you-- to keep Corona safe."  
>Rapunzel snapped her hands back to her chest and got on her feet. Cassandra worriedly stood up in suit.

>"Raps?"  
>The Princess stormed over in the direction of the tent's entrance, stopping just a few steps before it. She was giving her back to Cassandra.  
>"The problem is you didn't really do a good job of that, Cass. Word of..." The Princess started, but had to stop and swallow before finding the stomach to say the next words. "'Coronan atrocities' is going around the courts of the whole continent. Everybody is appalled and terrified of our new weapons. When the rumors are finally confirmed..."  
>Rapunzel looked back over her shoulder.  
>"It's likely Ingvarr and Equis will join the war on Arendelle's side."  
>And she left, leaving Cassandra swaying and grabbing the side of the table not to fall over.


	3. The lives of soldiers belong to their country

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfiction was born as a series of greentexts I posted on the TTS threads over at 4chan's /co/ board, which I later decided to expand into a proper story with some meat and planning behind it.
> 
> The first three chapters map to the greentexts exactly, reposted verbatim, >memearrows and all. As such, they're rather awkwardly paced, very self-indulgent and generally pretty raw. Later developments will expand and make better sense of things but I hope you'll enjoy the start as well.

>"It's still nowhere close to acceptable."  
>A thin swarm of looters and stretcher bearers combed the remains of the battlefield. Foggy plumes of smoke were still visible, rising here and there from where explosions had scarred the ground. Heat radiated around craters and the mangled bodies they hid within. The air tingled of an acrid smell of chemicals and roast and carried the agonized voices of wounded survivors, the luckiest of which were being loaded on carts to be brought to the surgeons.  
>Cassandra stood atop Fidella, surveying the crumpled remains of an Ingvarr war-beast, an iron colossus in the shape of a boar, as tall as ten men. It had cost many, too many lives to take it down and even then it had only been the unbelievable valor of one soldier to accomplish the feat, climbing on top of it to slot a live grenade into its eye windows.  
>A true hero. Nobody knew who it was among the dead surrounding the machine.  
>"The troop's too disorganized, we could have half as many losses if they listened to their orders properly."  
>"Yet we won the battle, Marshal!" proudly claimed a young officer from her retinue.  
>"We keep winning like this and we're gonna lose the war..." she muttered bitterly to herself in reply.  
>"Marhsal?"  
>"You did good. Today we brought pride to Corona, but we must keep doing better. Hey, what's going on over there?"  
>A pair of agitated figures a hundred yards or so ahead had caught her attention. She spurred Fidella to come closer, arriving just in time to make out one of the two men sinking a sword in the abdomen of the other. From their attire, both Coronans.

>"Explain yourself, soldier."  
>Her cutting demand startled the man, who'd been greedily going through the pockets of his comrade and hadn't heard the horses approach.  
>He looked up at her, covered in mud and blood, realization slowly and terrifyingly making its way over his dumb features.  
>He started to stammer something and fell on his butt, a trembling hand pointing at the dead man with a blade still sticking out of his gut. A distinctly Coronan blade.  
>"He was... we were catching our breath, seeing if there was something... a little thing or two to take, ma'am... only from the enemy, that is... a man's gotta think of his family, after all..."  
>"I don't have all day."  
>The soldier gulped. "I saw a real nice button on a uniform... silver, you see, ma'am. But then he went and said he saw it first! But he didn't, I swear! And we started arguing, a bit... and then he drew his sword... I had to defend myself! I didn't mean it, ma'am! I didn't start it!"  
>"That's enough."  
>Cassandra dismounted and walked over to the terrified man. "You're in luck."  
>She smiled and extended her hand to help him up. He looked at it and then at her.  
>"I am?"  
>"That's right."  
>The soldier laughed nervously and accepted her help, rising to his feet. She patted his shoulders, still smiling. The man reciprocated with a wide grin that was missing many teeth.  
>"You're about to receive a great honor: I'll make sure to flog you personally."  
>The laughter died in the man's throat and Cassandra knocked him out with her fist.

>A massive crowd had gathered around the camp's gallows as news of the exceptional event had spread. Discipline was normally administered by low ranking officers, for a Marshal themselves to not just oversee but personally carry out a whipping was entirely unprecedented.  
>The condemned man had been gagged and summarily strapped to a wooden pole so that his naked back was exposed.  
>Cassandra made her way on the platform and the murmur going through the crowd quickly died down.  
>"Men of Corona! You all know why we're out here. We fight and bleed every day because our country has been betrayed by those we once thought our friends. Some harlot from a backwater kingdom grew envious of our fertile land, rich cities and beautiful men and women and thought she could stab us in the back and take what's rightfully ours.  
>Well, every day we prove her wrong and I am proud of each and every one of you who keep fighting!  
>And it's a tough job. I understand, there's a lot on the line and it's only right that we think of us and our own first. That's why I petitioned His Majesty the King to let the spoils of war be shared among all of you, even though they should be the Crown's right. And He, in His wisdom, granted the request. Hah! Not even Fitzherbert's goons are allowed this privilege, the dainty bastards!  
>But yet... there is a limit. When I think of the most hideous crime one could commit in these times, the mind jumps to cowardice. Desertion. Leaving one's comrades behind to fend for themselves and their loved ones.  
>But this animal went beyond even that. He thought it was in his rights to assault and kill his fellow countryman for the sake of some miserable prize scrounged from a dead man's uniform.  
>Rats eat each other. We let them go hungry long enough and I'm sure Arendellians would. But not Coronans. And sure as hell not any one of my soldiers."

>Cassandra moved back from the edge of the gallows and ordered the convicted's gag to be removed. The man was so petrified in terror he didn't even try to plead. Somebody came ahead with a wooden bit for his mouth, but Cassandra angrily cracked the whip mid-air.  
>"Stay where you are. Let him scream. Keep count, Sargeant."  
>Just in time the unfortunate man found the courage to protest that his speech was cut midway by the first, merciless lash.  
>A certain heat began making its way into Cassandra. Her lounges started neat and regular like a metronome's ticking, punctuated by wails and the officer's clear counting. But every strike seemed to carry something more than the one it followed.  
>"Ten!"  
>It carried the hatred for the enemy she had carefully learned for the sake of herself and her soldiers.  
>"Twenty!"  
>It carried the overhanging specter of defeat for a nation cornered from all sides.  
>"Thirty!"  
>Her defeat. Her failure.  
>"Fourty!"  
>It carried the anguishing loneliness of having been the King's first choice to manage a losing front.  
>"Fifty!"  
>It carried her distance from all her friends.  
>"Sixty!"  
>It carried Rapunzel's letters, her one source of joy in those days, that she'd stopped receiving since her last visit.  
>"Seventy!"  
>Her smile.  
>"Eighty!"  
>The one thing she wanted to protect. The one thing she could not let escape her.  
>"Ninety!"  
>She'd fix this mess. She'd fix everything.  
>"One hundred!"  
>She'd prove her worth and earn her due.

>Cassandra finally stopped, her breast rising and lowering in great heaves under her armor.  
>The man had passed out at some point, she wasn't really sure when. It wasn't important.  
>She raised her head. Everyone was looking at her with eyes full of fear, respect and disgust. The air was still and deadly quiet.  
>She threw the whip to the ground and rubbed her sweat-covered face, marching back to the edge of the platform in front of the crowd.  
>She had their attention, for sure.  
>"The next of you idiots I catch harming another gets a jug of Quirinium strapped to their balls and a kick in the ass towards Arendelle. Dismissed."


	4. Keep a good pace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weaning off the greentext format, this is the first proper chapter that was written as part of a larger story.
> 
> Infinite thanks to [Daisy](https://occlueen.tumblr.com/) for the invaluable work as editor and beta reader.

Noon of a sweltering midsummer day. The sun blankets the countryside in a daze of heat and blinding light and the sky's clear of clouds but still diffused with milky humidity.

The torrid air sticks to Cassandra's skin and glues her shirt to her back. It grabs firmly around her temples and squeezes and hammers and binds. She feels every clop of Fidella's hooves. She feels them from the ground through her hips up her spine to the tip of her head and she bobs, up and down, bouncing to the trot.

The road lunges ahead straight as an arrow through unkempt fields, stretches of land that should overflow with the golden hues of crops ripe for harvest. A waist-high tangle of weeds and sunburnt grass covers the earth instead, spanning flat in all directions, the shadow of hills barely visible in the hazy distance only up ahead, towards the capital.

A village pops up in the middle of that vastness, just a mile or two further along the way. A small spread of low buildings huddled around a steeple, in turn surrounded by a thin ring of cultivated farmland. There's a confusion about the fields, some plots smattered with stooks of drying sheaves, others combed in long windrows of cut ears, others still covered in mangy stalks of wheat standing untouched under the sun. All without order or reason.

All deserted.

Fidella trots and something starts to surface above the concert of cicadas of those plains. A low singsong chant laps at the edge of Cassandra's hearing like waves cresting and breaking, getting stronger the more she nears the village. It takes her a moment but she recognizes it, she recognizes it and sighs in frustration. It would be easy to ditch the road for a bit and skirt around the settlement. A simple way to avoid the problem. It's very tempting. Slowing down or stopping is the last thing she wants to do but her head's pounding and Fidella's been suffering the heat of midday too.

She rubs the bridle under her fingers and enters the village. The chanting is stronger, it reverbs with the light against the whitewashed walls of the buildings lined up tightly against the road. The narrow corridor opens up and there it is in front of the church: the procession, just starting to leave. The wailing choir rises and falls with each line of prayer and the faithful beat their steps in the wake of the idol to the tune of the hymn. Four elderly men hold the wooden statue up ahead. The priest leads up front tapping his staff on the dirt to the rhythm. Two nuns wing him with lowered heads in reverent silence. A few dozen faithful follow in the back of the ceremonial march contracting and loosening to the verse like a collective inchworm.

Cassandra grunts and climbs down from Fidella. Nobody pays her any mind. There's a hand pump in the middle of the small square and the cool water is the most powerful blessing she could ask for as she ducks her head directly under the faucet. She straightens up, stretching, dripping something other than sweat for a break, watching the dark cowls hiding the hair of the faithful women. It's mostly women attending the rite, then children and a few elders. The priest wears black vestments, the nuns are wrapped in black, the statue is covered with a black tarp.

It's a ritual held in the rural parts of Corona to celebrate the end of the harvest. You gather at the temple and make your way chanting to the shrine raised the day before out in a field. The statue is left at the center of a symbolic offering of the fruits of the year's labors and the procession is broken. At dusk you come back with food and drink and the idol is uncovered and set ablaze, burning away all hardships and evil that plagued the congregation since last time. It looks like a funeral march because it is, it's a funeral for misfortune. Once the flames reach their highest point, the prayer stops and the feast begins and there's music and dancing and laughter. You dress in white for the evening rite.

There will be either very little or a great deal of carousing this year.

Cassandra takes Fidella to a side alley bathed in precious shade and sits down, breaking out the hard tack and dried meat for herself and the bag of oats for the horse. Owl lands after a while and tilts his head.

"Hey Owl. Were you watching the rite? It's the one Pete never shuts up about, same as in his hometown."

An inquisitive hoot and a roll of her eyes.

"Look, we're stopping just a bit while they're blocking the roa--"

The bird shakes his head and fixes his eyes on her meal. He clicks his beak.

"Ohoho no, buddy, this is for me. Get out in the fields, I'm sure there's mice around the grain. Go do the predator thing you like so much."

He glares at her and frowns and takes indignant flight.

***

Certain habits have a way of taking up roots in your brain and never really leave.

It's the forward camp of the Royal Army two days ago and Cassandra's sitting at the head of a number of her regiment commanders, waiting for lunch. She looks at the table in front of her and it's really more a description of function than form, a bare wooden board summarily set on two barrels over uneven ground. There's a palm-sized indentation about midway on one of the long sides that attests its origin as a door, graciously donated from the house of some brave patriot.

It's all wrong. This is a gathering of high officers of the State, all at least minor nobility. There is a proper way to do this, a protocol. It begins with a thorough cleaning of the venue. When you're dusting a room you want to start from the high places and work your way down, that way the dirt you'll inevitably spill at each step will wind up on the floor and you can sweep it away. Basic trick she learned when she was eight, back when dad first had her help around the castle to build character and learn the value of hard work. "It's a sad truth," he said, "but in this world you must work to earn your meals. It'll do you good to start growing an appreciation for that."

She lets her eyes wander around the low, sweltering tent and it's a filthy mess of muddy soil, sacks of flour and bundles of wood all heaped around the edges in a scattering of other crates and barrels. Storage, when it's not used as a dining room. The two opened flaps on opposite sides of the tent would love to let some breeze through but there's none. At least it's a step up from the bivouacs of the troop out in the sun.

The cleaning itself is probably the part she dislikes the least. It's easy and comes natural to her for some reason.

Once the place is clean you set up the tables. There are many rules on how to arrange them in the room, but the tent only has space and purpose for one so that's a concern for another time. You want to focus only on what's essential for the job you're tasked with or you're never able to be on time. The castles produces chores at an almost unmanageable rate. You need to prioritize.

Next are tablecloths. First you put a thick flannel over the surface. This protects the wood and muffles the sounds of silver and dishware as they get shuffled around. You don't want the sensibilities of the gathered notables to be disturbed by the wrong clink, obviously. Then you cover the flannel with a first white cloth that goes down the legs of the table almost to the floor. Because a table, much like a lady, should never show its legs in public. Thank you for the reminder, Lady Crowley. Finally it's the tablecloth itself. The colour and motif depend on the occasion: State events always demand even gold with a royal purple festoon no matter the time of day. Otherwise you use pastels during the day, especially at breakfast, and stronger tones in the evening, embroidered with floral patterns or the royal coat of arms.

The cook finally squelches his way into the tent bearing a bathtub of a steaming pot. A boy hurries after him with a tray covered in bowls, spoons, glasses, bottles and bread and the pile's up to his eyes. A jubilee of cheers raises from the officers in greeting. The two set up on top of a crate and the boy starts serving wine while the cook fills bowl after bowl with greasy soup. Cassandra leads the customary toast to the king and his family. The boy leaves the bottles and loaves of bread on the table and then distributes the servings, each with its spoon already dunked in.

Wrong. Intimately, utterly wrong. You put a service plate in front of each seat, again golden because the sun is the beating heart of Coronan iconography. Only on top of that goes the bowl or the bouillon cup because your esteemed aristocrats will spill their soup just like any yokel. And you never serve it already filled when it's a main course. That's only when it's _à coté_ of an appetizer. The cutlery should be on the table: forks on the left of the plate, knives on the right and spoons even further right. All on the side of the corresponding hand, all in order of use from outside to inside.

And you never ever put bottles on the table. It's the waiters' job to keep glasses full.

The boy puts her bowl in front of her and Cassandra nods and thanks (no, you never acknowledge the servants). She grabs her loaf of bread and breaks it with her hands (no, use a knife) and dips a piece (no) and blows on it because it's scorching hot (no!) and it's thick and savory and downright delicious.

Before being appointed lady-in-waiting to Rapunzel she'd never taken part to luncheons. Set up many, waited on a couple, but never participated. Then all of a sudden she was in a first row seat to witness all the little gestures, the underhanded motions, half-lidded looks, the barely whispered words. All these dignitaries come visiting to plead or bargain or demand or simply assert their position and the most skilled among them are like dancers if you watch them closely. They pirouette with gifts and compliments and just the right sentence at just the right time, buoyed by egos like hot-air balloons. Then they're put in front of a lobster. Lobster is a meal for the masses everywhere it's found, except in the city of Corona. There it's touted as a delicacy and the consequence is that most guests have no idea how to eat it. They're discreetly instructed by an attendant before the meal but it only goes so far. They fumble with the crackers and the picks and their plates turn into fountains. Not every time. But often enough.

The people sitting around her now are different, because they're not really nobles. Not by birth. There's an ancient law requiring regiment commanders to be titled in order to hold the rank. And when the war started and the Royal Army had to be rebuilt effectively from scratch, both old guard and young scions of the Coronan aristocracy decided almost unanimously that it was a better idea to pay the fines than answer the levy. So, under Nigel's suggestion, the long dead Knightly Order of the Sneezeweasel was reformed with her as Grand Mistress and mandate to appoint new knights at her discretion. Apparently it's enough to qualify.

Rescinding old edicts is complicated and time-consuming, she was told. And this benefited the treasury.

Those are the people she's eating and swapping reports with. Sir Friedel finishes telling a joke and his eyes crinkle over the lid of his glass of wine. Because you see, when a clock goes forwards it goes tic-toc, but when General Mathias goes backwards, it's tactic. He owns a small farm, Sir Friedel. Sir Delarue whips back his boulder of a head in thundering laughter. The oaken width of his shoulders suggests that in his life as a lumberjack his body absorbed the qualities of timber. Sir Pickety chokes on a mouthful of soup, sputtering droplets through his beard and everywhere else. He studied administration in Equis for the family business. Sir Néter sold his brigantine to outfit his own band of men to help the cause. He snickers and slaps Friedel's back like airing a carpet. Sir Weill is a dockhand with absolutely no sense of humor. He just sticks spoonfuls in his mouth.

There are many others like them in other camps, dispersed along the line of the front to cover the many locations susceptible to attack. Professionals, functionaries, laborers, peasants. A few genuine noblemen among them too, the ones with enough mettle and brains to reaffirm their standing and _noblesse oblige_. They make the inexperienced brains of an awkward creature, yet they're the best she could find for the army. Cassandra herself is where she is only because of her father and because she had basically lived in the military history section of the castle library for a couple of years. She almost fainted on the spot when the king summoned her and explained the situation, extending the offer, no, the request to take command.

It's engraved in her mind. Her father is standing right beside the throne, impossibly tall in the impeccably polished shine of his uniform. A spot on a guard's cuirass is a spot on their conscience, he always says. He's to be reassigned full time to the Iron Masks, the secret police. He's up there at the top of the steps and he sounds uneasy having to explain that's the reason the choice can't fall on him. And he looks and she's still stunned standing with her hands in her lap so he walks down to the floor. He walks down and stops and he puts his hands on her shoulders and says, "Cassandra, I don't want you to do this unless you're absolutely sure of it. You have to understand just how grave of a burden it will be."

His grip is firm, his words heartfelt. His eyes are soft and she's seen them a hundred times, she's seen them hidden under the pretense of sternness whenever she’s talked or hinted or argued about being involved with the guard. She’s seen them every time she tried to have him rely on her, to appreciate her, to show her worth, all but shouting out loud to please just let her do something meaningful with her life. At least something more meaningful than setting butter knives on butter plates, above and to the left of the service plate, blade's edge towards the seat.

"Take your time, honey. Sleep on it," he insists and wants to continue but she stops him. "It's fine, dad," she says and every hair of her body is standing on edge. He hesitates and for a moment she swears she sees that softness in his eyes cross over to a glisten. He lets her go and she turns towards King Frederic with her headdress in her hands and she kneels, dress be damned, and swears loyalty to the crown.

It was the first of many, many rushed steps she'd end up taking in those early days. But, through some miracle, she's still here to remember them.

There's movement outside the tent. The picket moves ahead and shouts something, there's a horse and someone dismounts in a rush and is let through the tent entrance. A courier, covered in sweat, straight from the capital. He salutes and hands a letter to Cassandra and she breaks the king's seal, instructing the cook and the boy to give the man some food and drink. He asks for water only, because he has to leave immediately, he explains, in fact he'll need a fresh horse and an escort. Cassandra reads and the tent is quiet save for Sir Delarue munching on thirds and the courier greedily rehydrating. She reads and her eyes go wide, she skips to the two signatures and stamps at the bottom and they're genuine, the king and her father's, but they can't be. She goes back and she reaches the end and she reads again a second time and the letter is a crumple of paper in her fist slammed hard on the table. Wine and broth spill over and everybody is looking at her.

"A cease fire," she growls. His Majesty wants to hold a conference with the Coalition so they are to stand down and avoid all engagements until further instructions. The table revolts, that's ridiculous! Impossible! King Frederic would never! Sir Delarue leaps to his feet and lifts the courier by the scruff of his shirt, what kind of game is he playing? Is he a spy? Did he bring fake orders to trick--

"QUIET!"

The shouting stops and the courier is roughly dropped back on the ground. She takes a deep breath and it comes out shakier than she'd have liked. The letter is genuine, their orders are clear and what's more, she's been recalled to Corona to report to the king. So Sir Néter will take command of their division and make sure news of the cease fire is sent to the other camps. The courier, what's the name? Lieutenant Licht will receive his escort and make his way to Mathias' camp to deliver the truce request. And nobody is going to question the matter any further. Clear?

Clear, Marshal.

They'll have to excuse her now, because she has to go right away. So she gets up and starts marching out but Sir Weill grabs her arm. She shoots him a furious look and those brown, small eyes of his drill into her with the same insight that led him from being a man in a line to leading two thousand soldiers. "What?" she snaps and he lets go.

"I apologize, ma'am. Be safe on your way to the castle."

"Yeah. You keep your wits around yourselves too."

She exits the tent and barks for Fidella to be readied and saddled as soon as possible and her head's pulsing. She doesn't pay attention to her boots sinking in the mud every step she takes towards her quarters. She doesn't notice when she bumps into a soldier and makes him spill the pail of water he's carrying. She barely registers almost falling flat on her face stumbling over a loose board on the path. Her mind's not there. Her mind's in the tallest tower of the castle back in Corona.

And it keeps going over and over those few lines of the letter she couldn't tell anything about to her officers.

***

Fidella trots and the sun is arcing down from the zenith.

There are at least three more days of travel left and the horse is at her limit. Too strong, too muscular, too heavy. Exceptional on the battlefield but no good for long distances. It's a miracle already she's lasted that far.

"Just a little longer, girl."

Cassandra bounces up and down on the saddle. The countryside passes by, the greens and browns of parched vegetation blurring white hot in that relentless blast of light. Hills roll away in the distance, trees and bushes clinging on like stubborn hair on balding heads. She takes a swig off her waterskin and now it's empty.

There's a ram, cooling down under the shade of an oak, chewing. It bows its head, snaps and chews. Slow, patient, methodical. It can search for the best morsels out of the grass, the blades and herbs strong and lucky enough to grow green over the earth. It bows its head, snaps and the green is gone. Cassandra looks and their eyes meet. The ram chews. She passes on.

Up and down and every clop of a hoof on the road snaps in her spine and her thighs are stuck in the worst spot between numb and on fire.

Eventually she crests a hill and spots the three squat buildings at the bottom of the other side, one on the right, two on the left and a little stone bridge just past them. "There we go," she says, and pats Fidella's neck. She rides her down and stops right over by the sign of the post house and it takes effort to dismount. Fidella is tied and gets one last rub over her nose. The horse’s breath is hot and humid, comes out of her nostrils like bellows.

"I'll make sure they treat you well, don't worry."

She grabs a satchel from her saddlebags and walks through the front door like a compass pivoting on a map. Inside is an immediate relief of coolness and shade trapped by thick plastered walls, granite floors and rows of wooden beams under the low ceiling. One woman sits just beyond the shaft of incandescent sunlight coming from a window overlooking the road. She’s tall, broad, with an air of confidence about her and lords over the empty tables and the oakwood counter of the austere dining hall. She's looking at Cassandra but her own features are hidden by darkness and eyes that still haven't adjusted to it.

"I need to change my horse. Are you the ostler?"

"Nope."

Laconic and sing-song. And pleasantly direct. Cassandra purses her lips and fights her way over to the counter to call out for service. A voice answers from deeper inside, young and fresh, a girl. Its owner comes out with a bush of blond curls not at all kept at bay by a plain kerchief. She squares Cassandra and her soaked shirt, her mismatched tights, her boots, all covered in dust, and she hesitates.

"Can I... help you?"

"Yes. I need a fresh horse."

"I'm sorry miss but all posting is reserved to the King's Army these days."

Cassandra nods and takes a paper and a gold coin out of the satchel and slides them over to the girl. "That won't be a problem," she says.

The girl hesitates again, starts by pocketing the coin, takes up the document. She reads and looks at the seal. Her eyes go wide and she goggles at Cassandra, her cheeks flush and mouth malfunctioning.

"I-I'm sorry milady, I'll-- I'll get on it right away."

"Fidella's right outside, make sure to move over the bags."

"Yes milady."

The girl hurries out the front and Cassandra waddles after her, shielding her eyes with a hand against the light.

"Oh, and make sure to refill the waterskin. If you've got some food ready pack some dinner too, something light. But don't waste time on it, I want to leave as soon as possible."

The girl stammers through another obsequious assent and takes Fidella away to the flimsy barrack on that same side of the road. Cassandra sighs and cracks her neck, watching the horse's haunches sway towards a more than well-deserved rest.

Time she gives her muscles the stretch they're dying for.

"Odd little things, those, aren't they?"

The tall woman makes her comment from just out of the threshold of the post house. Cassandra’s down on a lunge and looks up and the woman's face is painted a uniform red in its left half and her chalk white hair is gathered in a puffy braid like some sort of lumpy pillow. The woman stands perfectly straight with her hands behind her back, staring across the road.

Cassandra cranes her neck to look, maintaining the position. A long wall and a pile of rubble behind it can be understood as the ruins of a sturdy building not unlike the inn itself.

Black spikes, their tips two stories tall gleaming bluish in the sunlight, jut from the remains of the old stables like quills on the back of a porcupine. They're tilted, pointing towards the direction she came, away from the capital. A ribbon fifteen feet wide, tidily following the side of the road. It starts in the distance farther than the eye can see and extends likewise in the other direction. 

The building was destroyed only because it was on the wrong side of the road.

Cassandra snorts. She says, "Yeah, you tell that to the owner of the place."

The woman smirks. She says, "Oh, I have.” She says, “Where do you think they come from? And where are they leading to?"

Cassandra doesn’t know. She knows she found them first. She knows one night, an idiot made a fool of the princess and her handmaiden had to pick up the pieces. She knows that night Rapunzel formed a connection to them and risked her life. She knows they’ve destroyed much more than the stables of a rural posting house. She knows she hates them.

It’s all she knows and they’re not answers so she bends over to touch her toes and stays quiet.

Then the woman speaks again.

"You know, I was there when they reached the princess. Now that was a show."

Cassandra stops and straightens up and there's a knife in her boot and another harnessed to her thigh and her rapier is hanging from her belt. They're standing maybe ten feet apart and only now she properly takes in the tone of the stranger's muscles, the broadness of her shoulders and how weathered her skin is. Barefoot, she doesn't have any weapons immediately visible on her, but her black shirt and pants are baggy enough to hide an arsenal.

"I'm sorry, who are you again?"

"The name's Adira."

Pause.

"And... ?"

"That's it. I'm a person who values her privacy, you understand."

Still looking straight ahead to the ruined stables, impassible. Cassandra grinds the heel of her boot on the dirt. She asks, "Well, what happened?"

That's the moment the woman finally regales her with eye contact and there's disappointment in it. Then a smirk and a shrug.

"The princess' hair lit up like one of those lanterns you people like so much, then she went to touch one of the rocks and there was a huge release of energy. But don't worry Marshal, nobody got hurt except for a couple of trees."

Three problems come up immediately with this. One: this woman of foreign fashion, foreign accent and foreign features recognized Cassandra. Two: there should be very few people aware of the specifics of Rapunzel's magical hair, namely that it glows close to the rocks. Three: this knowledge gives credit to her story.

Which puts Cassandra at a disadvantage because it's the first she's heard of anything of the sort.

She folds her arms and scoffs.

"Oh, please, you call that a princess story? Haven’t you heard, she can sense if you leave your wife to go for a drink in the middle of the night, just by the vibrations of your steps through her feet?”

Source: Andre Jung, 3rd Royal Grenadiers, Soldier Second Class.

“Or how about the time she wrapped her hair around a barrel of water and turned it into dinberry wine?”

Source: Paul Manning, 2nd Regiment of His Majesty’s Pikemen, Private.

“Or, my personal favorite: she put together a fight club in the tunnels under Corona and she takes part herself under disguise. Goes by 'Maiden of Mayhem' or, much better, ‘Cobra McBloodpuncher’ depending on who tells the story."

Source: Charles Schwilingué, 6th Regiment of His Majesty’s Crossbowmen, Corporal; Theo Pfeiffer, 12th Royal Cuirassiers, Trooper.

Leave it to twenty-two regiments of soldiers to come up with a deluge of crap for their amusement. Most of it a lot raunchier than this.

The tall woman chuckles. She says, "Humor. Cute, but not quite what I'm going for." Her eyes angle down to look at Cassandra. Impatiently, she says, "It's your choice to believe me or not, it makes no difference to me. But if I were you I'd listen carefully, because it seems like you might not have been told all the facts.”

The woman stops a moment, shrugs, and adds, “A curious decision, by the way, but who am I to question the wisdom of His Majesty King Frederic?"

"Someone who needs to watch their tongue," snarls Cassandra, clenched smile cooking off like a Quirinium charge.

"Oh come now, Marshal, I thought you enjoyed a good joke. Besides, I already spoke with your father and the princess themselves and they were very understanding."

Finally, a crack.

"I see, you spoke with my father," she mocks. "You mean the Captain of the Guard, right?"

"The Captain of the Iron Masks. Word of advice on that, by the by: maybe consider a more discreet uniform for your secret police. Better yet, get rid of uniforms altogether. Catches the eye a bit."

Sweat runs down the back of Cassandra's neck and the heat's only one reason. The mellow tone of the woman gets under her skin, her little jabs prod and prick and Cassandra knows her type perfectly well: someone with more ego than common sense, getting a kick out of making themselves sound more important than they really are. By all means, she should be full of it and no base should stand under her words at all.

Only, there is base. There are details, about facts that are not common knowledge, like her dad's reassignment. And there's arrogance, yes, but it doesn't sound like the empty boasting you'd expect from a random, self-important idiot.

Despite herself, Cassandra's putting credit to the woman's words. And that's problem number four.

"You misunderstand," she says, and it's her turn to be smug. "I can assure you the uniforms catch the eye so you don't notice all the times they're not there, but our agents are."

The keen, tapered eyes of the woman flash with a glint. She says, “Now you’re starting to make sense,” and suddenly her tone turns serious and she points with her chin across the road.

“Look: when the Sundrop touched the black rocks, that's when that started to happen. The rocks immediately began to grow away from Corona towards the border and they go on for hundreds of miles further by now. I'm sure you've seen it for yourself."

In Glockheim-sur-Mallàn the rocks came spread out in a fan a mile wide. They do that sometimes. They ran down the entire village, piercing houses, barns, the local pub, the renowned town hall with its crimson red paint, the church. They say when the steeple fell the bell rang over and over like it was crying for help.

In Kullenberg they came at night, quiet, almost on tiptoes. They followed the roads and never so much as touched a building. The people woke up in the morning to a faint ringing and found the streets paved in shining black. And Orren the Mole, the town’s drunk, impaled and crushed against the ground.

Cassandra got used to seeing the rocks to the point she tunes them out of the landscape. If they left, then so long and good riddance.

She asks, "What of it?"

The woman replies, "They're pointing the way for the Sundrop.” She says, “The rocks want Rapunzel to follow their path, which, times being what they are..."

A sigh, and her swagger falters.

"... right now would be unwise. This is not the kind of matter you can ignore indefinitely, mind you. But, you won't be able to deal with it any time before you're all done playing war over the continent. And look at that."

The woman turns around and Cassandra's wary for a moment but does the same.

"Excellent timing."

The blonde girl hurries back from the stables and the flaps of her skirt dance in flutters of green. She has a bridle in her hand and under the bridle there's the bay head of an Arabian mare and then a sinewy body on the scraggier side of lithe.

"Here milady, your ride is ready. I packed you some supper too, it's in the bag on the right."

Cassandra blinks, and replies, "Thanks. Didn't notice you going back to the kitchen."

"I took the back entrance. Your… your ladyship looked busy."

The girl smiles and bows and it'll never feel natural to be on the receiving side of deference. Cassandra inhales through her mouth, shoots a look over her shoulder to the tall woman, obliquely asks the girl, "Do you have another horse to saddle?"

"Ye... yes milady. Should I prepare it?"

Cassandra gestures to wait and turns around fully. The woman's still standing there, still half-smiling with those sly eyes. Those eyes that must hide a library's worth of secrets.

"Why don't you come with me? I'm sure you have a lot more to tell but I’m afraid I don't have time to stop and chat. Are you going seaward?"

"I'm not really going anywhere."

"Great, then you're free to come."

"I am. But I won't."

"Please," says Cassandra taking a step forwards. There's a knife in her boot and another harnessed to her thigh and her hand rests on the hilt of the rapier hanging from her belt.

"I insist, Adira."

The tall woman with the painted face and the weird hair doesn't move, doesn't flinch. She just keeps smiling and says, "I've already given you some precious insight, Marshal. Here's some more for good measure: don't mind me or the black rocks. Get on your horse and get going if you're in a hurry, there's not a lot of daylight left."

It's only a second for the metal to scrape the leather of the scabbard and the girl to choke out a shriek and the tip of the sword is pointing up at the woman's throat. The still impassive woman. Cassandra snarls like an animal.

“Listen buddy, I don’t know who you think you are but I don’t trust you. You’re coming with me to the next guard post whether you like it or not.”

The woman stares. Then her torso shifts back and her legs swing up and she turns on herself and Cassandra's rapier points to the ground now. The woman hops, skips and jumps up on the hitching post, bounces over the sign of the posting house and leaps to land above the shingles of the inn like some sort of oversized cricket.

The hanging sign swivels gently on its hinges, squeaking, disturbed. Both sides of the board are painted with a spoke wheel radiating sun rays like in the Somne of the kingdom’s coat of arms.

The woman stands and lifts her eyebrows, looking down, unimpressed. The sun casts her features in stark relief and her arms never left their spot behind her back. Cassandra glares, the slack of her jaw snapping taut in a grinding of teeth. The girl peeks over the withers of the horse, a meek "Not on the roof again..." makes its way out of her.

Cassandra's rapier lifts back up and points at the woman.

"You're under arrest in the name of King Frederic. Get down right now."

"Hmm. No."

Again that smile. Like the blissful cheek of a cat that just pushed down a cup from a table.

Cassandra's right hand twitches to the harness on her leg and the rapier in her left sweeps back and it's a thrill how automatic the motion feels. How fast the throw is, how precise the trajectory of the knife through the air. It cost so much effort to regain that degree of dexterity.

Whoever this woman, this "Adira" may be, foreign spy, agent or simple lunatic, she will not get the best of her.

But the woman kicks off and backflips against the milky haze of the sky and the arc she draws through the air is an insufferable work of art. The throw too slow, actually, the woman’s bare ankle too small of a target, really. The knife cracks a tile and harmlessly ricochets away and the woman lands on the ridge of the roof, perched like a bird.

"Safe travels, Marshal," and she turns around and runs off the far edge.

Cassandra launches after her. Stop, she shouts, she’s under arrest, she screams, and when she rounds the corner to the back of the inn she's met with a pile of firewood and a chopping block and no sign of the woman. So she whistles for Owl and sends him to find the fugitive while she searches the building but the bird finds nothing and she finds nothing. All the rooms are empty, no belongings of hers left behind anywhere. The beds are tidy. Crisp, even. A faint scent of lavender hangs in the air.

She doesn't have time for this. She never did, she needs to get to Corona immediately, it would have been one thing to take a suspect to a constabulary along the way but now she'd need to mount a full manhunt on her own. With no leads.

She storms back out to the girl who didn't dare move away from the horse.

"You, ah-- what's your name?"

"Oh, it’s... it’s Greta, milady."

"Greta. You're not really here alone all day, are you?"

"Oh no milady. My brother, he went to town with my grandpop for an errand but they should be back before dark. Has... has Miss Adira left? She had three more nights already paid..."

“Nevermind that. If you see her again, make sure someone keeps an eye on her and run off to call the guard, understand?”

A waste. A waste and an aggravation.

Cassandra apologizes to the girl and leaves her another coin. She instructs that Fidella is to be looked after with care and taken to Corona as soon as possible. Then up she goes on that rangy horse and it’s back to the trot and the bounce and the dirt of the road.

The bridles held in a vise rub and chafe against her callused skin. Adira’s words rattle around her head. If they’re true, Rapunzel had to face the rocks again and she was all the way at the other end of the kingdom. If they’re true, the damned things are still not done with the princess.

She would have wanted to be there. She would have dropped everything to come over, her Knights would have held the line for her. But she didn’t even know anything had happened in the first place.

Because nobody told her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all forms of feedback are wholly welcome.


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